Now Eye See: The Memoirs of a Near Nova

By Maurice P. Fortune

Now Eye See is the story of challenge and triumph. It is a tale of fortitude and faith in oneself and in God. It chronicles my life from very humble beginnings in Chester, Pa. to Whaleyville, a tiny town on Marylands Eastern Shore to an unlikely and fortuitous journey that carries me to the big city of Manhattan, New York. Now Eye See tells my story of going from picking blueberries and wearing a straw hat on a farm in Maryland to a job as personal secretary to a permanent mission to the United Nations. From being monolingual to self-learning and the adoption of French as a second language, purely as a survival necessity. Although completely unaware of my own familial roots in Music and Journalism, this is my story of a search for a career as a songwriter and professional recording artist. And as a private custodial business owner that suffered disastrously during the economic crises of 2008, which resulted in my own displacement as well as the loss of all my possessions including all evidence of my small successes in the music industry.

This is the story of my life and how I have been able and fortunate to reinvent myself to become successful in a new career. This is the narrative of unbelievable luck and a chance conversation in the offices of a New York City hospital. A conversation that spurred a listener to google my name and to help begin the process of recovery and rejuvenation. Of a mysteriously placed photograph taken by a world famous photographer. And of my namesake and nephew whom Id never met: a soldier for the US Army killed in a roadside bombing in IraqOctober 2004. This is the story of the rediscovery of all my work and of my vinyl recordings being offered for sale in eight countries around the world. This then is the unaltered story of my rights and my wrongs.

Maurice Fortune

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 9, 2018
• ISBN: 9781532039997

Maurice P. Fortune

This is my second publication with iUniverse. It is a collection of short fictitious stories and it is presented as the first volume. Volume 1 contains eight short stories based on various subjects from the mysterious to mayhem. I have explored several aspects of my imagination and set out to present different points of view. The stories are primarily intended to appeal to the adult mind both young and mature. I think everyone will find something in these short stories that they can identify with. Happy reading!

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Copyright © 2018 Maurice P. Fortune.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

iUniverse

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-5320-3998-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-3999-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017919326

iUniverse rev. date: 07/30/2018

CONTENTS

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Part I

Beginnings (An Humble Start)

Fortunes And Duprees – The Seventh Child- Born on a Saturday-

Death Comes

A Foster Child

End Of The War

Too Young To Know?

Like It Was

This Old House- The Old Farm!

The Little Red School House

Growing Up Too Soon

A Close Encounter Of Sorts

To Country, To Country

A Prom – And In Defense Of Pressure

Fare Thee Well Old Farm

Another Unhappy Event

Whaleyville-Steam Mill Hill

It’ll Be A ‘Blue Sunday’

TICKS and the Last Pair of New shoes!

Poppa

To School- On A Cheese Bus

Baby Makes Three

Hawg Killin’ Time

Holidays!

The Thin Brown Line

Tubs & Standing

The Best Buscuits In The World

Seperate And Unequal

Dirty Face And When The Cheering Stopped

My One And Only School

Toads And Frogs, Beattles And Fire Flies

Never At Home

Poisons

Knock On Any Door

Alone Again, Naturally!

Regrets! I’ve Had A Few!

The Excursion!

The Long And Winding Road

Mother’s Day

A Near Family Scandal

The Habenera Lesson

The Dreams Of My Grandfather

The Beer Garden

At School

One More Sunday, The Little Church By The Side Of The Road And Snakes

The Roadside Inn

Time To Pay The Piper And The Two Visionaires

Swan Song

Part II

The Cold Train Ride To Chicago

I’m Going To New York

Part III

New York, New York- It’s A Hell Of A Town!

The Scene – The Deuce

The Jewelry Picker

St. Augustine

The Piano Teacher Fiasco And Finally, A Real Job

What Comes Around

The Call Home

Getting On With My Life

Flimflammed / First Experience

A Big Disappointment

The Age Of ‘Junk’

Fly Away- Maurice Fortune

The Genie

On The Road Again

Eighty-Second And Columbus

Chance Meeting! Mr. Excitement/Missed Opportunity - Jackie Wilson

The Job

Promoted

Crushed Ego

A Most Happy New Year

Softly, Comes The Burning Truth. Swifly Like A Saber’s Tooth!

Central Park West

Building Of Fading Beauty

The Blackout

Evolution

The First Counselor

King Sized Trouble

Beauty & The Weak

A Final Goodbye

Drifting

Thanks But No Thanks

A Dream Deferred

A Different World

The Office Moves Yet Again

End Of An Era

Keeping Faith

Happy Days Are Here

I’ll Never Leave A Friend Behind Again- M. Fortune

A Near Saint

His ‘Personal’ Secretary

A Little Free Time

The Retirement-

Part IV

The Loneliest Number

Harlem - 12⁵Th Street

Kids, A Souvernir And The Times They Are A Changing

The Ruse Of The Entertainment Managers -

The Hard Drinker

The Death Of Oupa

Fun And Games

A Premonition

More Demos

Finally, On The Radio

Hearing Problems

School Daze

It Was Criminal

A Time For Me

The Ticking Clock- John Littleton Fortune (May 18, 1912- January 29, 1992)

A Vision

Part V

Tell Me What To Do For You!

Sister, Sister!

People Get Ready – Curtis Mayfield

Favorites

Say It Ain’t So

Ain’t No Way – Carolyn Franklin

Though The Road’s Been Rocky, It Sure Feels Good To Me- Bob Marley

Part VI

Year Two Thousand And Nine

Epilogue I

About the Author

I was born with the gift of sight but I have not always had the gift of foresight! - Maurice Fortune

DEDICATION

I dedicate this book to Montena Faye Fortune. It is her inspiration that lies within this effort; I hope I have not brought shame upon her memory. Faye was the family story teller. A published poet she had an insatiable desire to put pen to paper. This must not be forgotten as long as there are offspring of John Littleton, Angeline and Grace Fortune.

I also dedicate this effort to Otis F.S. Harley Jr., a friend and mentor. Otis played an important and in many ways an unsung role in my musical life.

To Beverly, Lorene and Marvella as well as to all of my brothers and sisters. To the second and third generations of Fortunes. To my namesake, Sgt. Maurice Keith Fortune killed in a roadside bombing on October 29, 2004 in Ramadi, Iraq. To nephews Marcel Gist, Vermont Jacobs Jr. and to Tony Davis. Finally, I dedicate this book to the two strangers I met on a moored boat. Their names and faces are just a blur but the warmth and kindness they extended to me on that long ago day will forever remain in my heart. So wherever they may be on God’s earth I say simply: Mbote Mingi! Je vous souhaite une tres belle vie!

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

To my godchildren Terrence Bellamy (T). May you continue to strive for the excellence within! And to Tyanna- whom I encourage to reach for the best. My heartfelt thanks to Ms. Arlene Roberts and Ms. Shuntelle Stephen, my dear friends, who not only helped me to rediscover a part of myself I believed forever lost but also for their kind thoughts and encouragements throughout this endeavor. Thank you ladies.

To paraphrase Abraham Lincoln, the art of writing is the greatest invention of all. To which I might add, If you know what you are doing. Having no experience in book writing I must confess that I am a bit afraid that my contribution to this great invention might be dismissed as the ramblings of a demented mind. Worse, that I may be scorned by friends and family as my account is burned and I am stoned in an attempt to force from me a recantation.

MARVELOUS- Psalm 118:23

On November 17, 1558 Elizabeth I Queen of England received the news that she had succeeded to the throne of England. Quoting from Scripture she is purported to have said, This is the Lord’s doing and it is marvelous in our eyes. If true, this best describes my feelings on Friday, May 13th, 2016 as I sat at my desk preparing my day at work. A co-worker tapped me on my shoulder. Turning, to my utter amazement I saw in her hand a printed copy of a document she had Googled. It was a picture of me in painted face. It had been taken by world famous photographer Mick Rock in his downtown Manhattan studio 25 years earlier for the cover of a 12 inch vinyl disc called, Come Home Africa. Through a series of unforeseen events it had been lost when, during a snow storm I’d walked out of my apartment on Central Park West six and a half years earlier. All my possessions were headed prepaid for an over-night stay in storage before joining me to begin a new existence in Albany, New York. I’d never again see them.

This is not a tell-all book- no account ever is so. Essentially, it is one that ends in 2001. I have purposely done this. Not because there have been no events in the last fifteen years worthy of reporting but because it was then that I incorrectly believed that my music life was over.

I did not realize that there were forces driving it on. Unbeknownst to me my music was being offered for sale in eight different countries and almost in the four corners of the world. In fact, I was unaware of this until May 13th, 2016.

As co-workers continued their research other information surfaced. Although many in New York knew me by the name ‘Guy’ Fortune, I had used it but once on a recording. Under Maurice, my given name, there were other records that brought back memories. There was the interview on the Sergio Early morning radio show. An interview on a gospel radio show in Queens, New York. A Christmas message for a radio show in New Jersey. There were live appearances and creditable write-ups in Cashbox and Billboard for two of the tunes.

There had been hours and hours spent in recording studios. And always, the relentless presence of my mentor and arranger Mr. Otis S.F. Harley Jr. pouring over the takes, listening and just allowing me to sing. Yes, there were memories. Memories best left in shadows if I was to successfully re-invent myself and get on with the rest of my life. And with God’s help I had done it! So I’d thought! But here it was again turning up like the proverbial good penny, unwilling to allow me to completely walk away.

And so the saga continues. I say this because, though I have given it my best effort, there is precious little space in these pages to recount an entire life story. In more than a few cases I have left it to you, the reader, to read between the lines and to imagine. I give you leave to do either or both. For if I have tried to shield family and friends from an embarrassing detail I have but thinly done so. All accounts are as true as I remember them. Of myself, I have been anything other than non- critical. I have spared nothing, however sordid, revealing or embarrassing.

Suffice it to say that I now admit my occasional ignorance and naiveté. Having lived these years I am at last able to look into my soul and admit the truth. Yes, Now Eye See! I see with understanding as well as with my eyes and because of this I live with a greater view of what some, if not all of this truly means.

But why? Some may say that it is an attempt to purge my soul of past sins. That perhaps in my sub- consciousness there lies a hidden burden. Sins that, like a B-movie monster having devoured most of its prey, stubbornly refuses to walk away and leave the remains of bones and macabre rotting flesh! If I am in denial and I well may be I have found this experience both rewarding and painful. I view this book as a tribute to my ancestors, to my friends, precious family, godchildren and to a cadre of others who have touched my life. For me, Now Eye See is a tribute to those like myself who are born with sight but sometimes lack foresight. Those who spend a lifetime searching for a dream, while not realizing they are already living it. Perhaps in the end it is not when you achieve the prize but when you seize the prize. The dream is never dead!

For when I have tried to shut out the memories they’ve remained just beneath the surface. Even when I have played no part in the reawakening of my dream, someone, driven by those unforeseen forces or spirits who watch over us all has done the job for me. Thinking the dream dead I’d abandoned hope only to learn to my dismay that my work done over thirty years earlier was being played on You Tube. Incredibly, my picture in painted face had somehow been placed in the images section of- Linkedin- next to the photographs of my nephew and namesake-a U.S. soldier killed in a roadside bombing in Iraq.

I confess that some seven years from its inception I still find the book difficult to read. I now leave it to you to judge the worthiness of my small endeavor insignificant as it may be. So go ahead: read, laugh and ridicule. And if you must, fill in the spaces that I have left blank. But take care! For if you are correct in your presumptions I leave myself room to vehemently deny all I have not put between these pages.

Part I

Our ancestors are not just the names and dates we can trace on our own family trees. But the names on all family trees with broad branches stretching back to the designs of our Maker. And if we can but see that far, then surely we can see that we are all brothers and sisters and that we are divided only by our beginnings. - Maurice Fortune

BEGINNINGS (AN HUMBLE START)

It was early March 2008 and already the cold and bright Tuesday afternoon was threatening to give way to an even colder evening. I never particularly cared for Chester. I don’t know why. Perhaps it was because someone close to me was always dying there. But after weeks of delays upon delay I had finally arrived by Amtrak to help sort through the remaining property in the house left vacant following the deaths of our eldest sibling Faye and Uncle Sam and Grandmother Mollie. Their deaths had been separated by only a few short years. Within a span of four or five years each had moved on. Eerily, it was as if they had simply gone shopping or to church and would return at any moment.

The welcoming and tidy house was full of the furniture they had left behind. Furniture and possessions that no one now wanted or needed. As the last survivor in the house Faye’s bed was neatly made. Seemingly, it awaited her return where she would churn out more of her poetry: some of it published. Or, immerse herself in one of the classical novels she’d always been fond of reading. It seemed almost blasphemous to disturb a single photograph or to look through the drawers in search of an important document or newspaper clipping not already confiscated by other members of the family. For certain, a search had already been done by someone who’d had no vision for anything other than that which might produce a small profit. Like treasure hunters of old there had already been a dig for valuable coins or jewelry. Or, perhaps for an old but still valid life insurance policy that had been over-looked in the tumultuous days following Faye’s sudden death. There was no way to know. And now, as difficult as it was to look through the remains of their lives someone had to take on the task. They were gone and no one would be returning from a brief sojourn or from shopping. They’d moved past this plane to another and hopefully better existence.

In Faye’s library there were dozens of classical books. It was largely from browsing through these books that I’d gained my own love of books and of writing. There were old sheets of music that had once been the prized possession of Uncle Sam. These rivaled my collection back in New York City. There were his own unpublished and un-copyrighted guitar compositions and lyrics. I was completely blown away by the numbers. I had never known about this and I couldn’t have been more shocked by the knowledge that I had unknowingly traveled in his shoes. No one could have written a more prophetical script for me. How could this have been possible? It was really true that an apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. But why and to whose advantage had the silence been? What a waste I thought as I continued my search. Would my own music follow this ignominious fate? Of course, I had diligently sent all my music off to be copyrighted in Washington, D.C. For the most part the tapes had been recorded in a professional studio and emerged as mixed demos. But to what if any use would they be when I died if no one heard them? Save for the nominal almost insignificant success I’d had with three of the tunes no one knew of Maurice (Guy) Fortune and his labor of love. Would they ever?

I returned to the task at hand- the jewelry of my grandmother. For the most part it had been picked over and the remains were mostly costume. Yet, here and there were indications of what she might have left behind. Small gold earrings and watches. Necklaces and rings, brooches of rhinestone and silver or gold plate. There were several long strands of her favorite pearls. What could be given away would be. What could not would remain for the next occupants of the house to throw away with unappreciative eyes and to clear space for their own bundles of what we humans have come to know as memorabilia but in most cases are little more than junk.

As we sorted through the documents my sister Marvella suddenly remembered she had a gift for me. A kind of heirloom as it were. Reaching into her bag she produced a single sheet of paper. Yellowed with age it looked close to remnants of the Dead Sea scrolls found in the desert more than a half century ago by a goat herder. She handed it to me without comment. I read it quickly. The smile disappeared from my face as the room grew strangely silent and small. It was my original birth certificate. A relic from another era. It clearly showed my name and time of birth. My weight and all the pertinent information were there. As was the custom of those times the rear of the certificate bore my left and right foot prints. The signature of the infant forever to be known as Maurice Payne Fortune. It had been issued by the Chester Crozer Hospital in Chester, Pennsylvania. It proudly displayed that fact at the top of its deeply creased page. I was sure it had been kept in my father’s trunk in Whaleyville, Maryland along with other birth records. As a young boy I had been through the trunk so often that I knew most of its contents and I vaguely recalled having seen it.

I sat there re-reading it several times, trying to digest the full measure of its meaning. Payne and not Paine as I had been led to believe by other early papers. It suddenly dawned on me that the spelling of my middle name with a ‘Y’ instead of the embarrassing ‘I’ was not my own invention as I had boasted for years. How little we sometimes know. But exactly where had she found it? I knew that the document was not something she’d found that day in Chester. Summoning all my inner glue I didn’t question her. Slowly, I refolded the certificate and placed it among my things.

My head pounded as my brain reflected upon the terrible scenes I had read about in books. Images flashed across the screen while viewing documentaries depicting those terrible times. Images of hospital personnel wearing masks to protect them from quarantined patients put outdoors to air in a futile attempt to cure them. Left outdoors for hours as though they had committed some terrible offense. Ignored as if they would precipitate a plague that would wipe out all humanity as had the European Bubonic plague of the 14th Century described by Margaret Tuchman in her book, The Calamitous 14th Century.

Trying to put on a brave face, I continued the work at hand. I didn’t know if Marvella understood the true meaning of the document or if she now had a clue of what I was feeling. It wasn’t so much that it was news to me. To be honest, I had somehow always guessed the truth. I don’t know how I knew but I knew in my gut. It was one of those inner feelings that one has and it was as real as the knowledge inside my mind that my mother had explained this all to me as an infant. Even as she told me she was leaving but would always be there to guide and protect me. People know these things even at the tender age of 1 or 2 years. In fact, I had once discussed the possibility with our deceased sister Beverly whose birth came one year after my own. No, this wasn’t new information. It was worse. It was the awful confirmation of that terrible truth. When I was born my mother was in the throes of a terrible illness and at only age twenty-nine, having born 8 children, she would pass away. Like AIDS it was the scourge of those times. Although there may have been co-morbidities, she had tuberculosis. This was the disease for which there was no real treatment or cure. A scourge from which she and countless of others in the U. S. and worldwide would not survive. No one ever told me. Not a word was ever said.

How I’d been lucky enough to survive and even luckier to have been born with no visible inheritance from that scourge only God knows. To be sure, I was fortunate. Beverly, born one year after would battle Lupus all her adult life. In fact, this was information essential to all of us and might have made a difference. Especially to Bev who suffered most of her life. And yet it was a family secret! It was so secretive that I doubt anyone remembered or even cared about it. Almost hurriedly we finished in the house. For the immediate future, the house in debt for back taxes which sis Faye had never mentioned would be rented. With my business suffering badly in the recession and in danger of failing completely I did not know what would happen afterwards and I could make no promises.

When Lorene pulled the SUV into Stacky’s’ parking lot for cheese steaks and hoagies my appetite was gone. I could manage little more than a soda. As reluctant as I was to leave them that day, I was almost grateful to climb the stairs to await the 2:10 SEPTA commute that would take me to 30th Street Station in Philadelphia. From there I’d catch the train home to Manhattan.

I sat in my seat alone and pensive. My mind was still glued to the house left devoid of occupants at #9 James Street/1431 MLK Pedestrian Way. We’d left behind a note on the kitchen table for the next door neighbor Ms. Rose. In it we’d asked her to kindly put out the bags of trash on the next collection date. She was reimbursed for having had the grass cut. The box of mostly costume jewelry was left on the table and she could do as she wished with its contents. In it were two long strands of grandmother’s pearls. None of the girls wanted them. They were beautiful but too old fashioned. Time had moved on and so had souls. I was left to shake my head in bewilderment. What a pity!

I looked out of the window into the grey of the fast fading afternoon. I wondered what other family secrets had been lost in time. Things lost that might have affected the lives of everyone concerned. Not just of myself but of generations. In an even broader sense, secrets of families across the nation and the world that have been lost or considered extraneous. And what information continues to be withheld with disastrous results or with consequences that might have changed the course of history? So much has been lost to carelessness and natural disaster: music, art, mechanics, agriculture, science and medicine. No wonder it has taken us humans so long to rediscover computer science and cures for diseases that had known cures hundreds and maybe thousands of years ago. It was a thought that would stay with me during my train ride home and it is something that stays with me today. Thoughts that propel me while awake. Thoughts that plague my dreams and haunt my solitude. Somewhere I’ve heard it said. It was true then and it is still relevant today: know ye the truth and the truth shall set you free!

FORTUNES AND DUPREES – THE SEVENTH CHILD- BORN ON A SATURDAY-

From what I know of my beginning, for some purpose known only to my Maker and of which I shall perhaps never understand, I was born in the town of Chester, Pennsylvania. The United States would soon enter the war already raging in Europe. Later, the names of people in faraway places would become familiar to all. Some, like Churchill, de Gaulle, Louis and the Tuskegee Airmen would be revered- others not so much. They would be reviled and hated. Shamefully, they’d be used to scare kids into good behavior or indoors from the darkness of night. Names like Hitler and his generals; words like Nazi, Big Bertha and Panzer Division. Strange names like Hiroshima and Nagasaki and Tokyo Rose. Eventually, Auschwitz, Buchenwald and Joseph Stalin would be added to this list of the dreaded. But there were many heroes and this list included household names like the Roosevelts, Eisenhower, MacArthur and Joe Louis. Also honored were Marian Anderson, Jesse Owens and Ralph Bunche.

Of those years I have of course no memory. And so I have pieced together from that faded birth certificate that at the time of my birth my mother was incurably ill. This must be true as my original birth certificate has as its heading: The J. Lewis Crozer Home for Incurables and Homeopathic Hospital, Chester, Pa.

Years later I’d visit my sister Beverly just before she too passed away at Crozer Hospital. There, I would come across photographs of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Photos showing his connection with the hospital as a recent graduate or still attending the Chester-Crozer Theological Seminary.

On the back of my certificate under history and above my footprints, barely two and one- half inches long it lists as father: John Littleton Fortune birthplace Chester, Pa. and Grace Virginia Dupree birthplace Savannah, Georgia. Both of them residing at 1220 West 2nd Street in Chester. This was shocking to me because I had always been told that we were living on Yarnell Street or Flower Street. Of itself this is not important except that the 2nd Street address was the home of my maternal grandmother and grandfather. If true this would mean that Mr. and Mrs. John Fortune and their brood of nine would have also lived there. One child, Marvin Wesley would be dead at the time of my birth. All of them would have lived there, in a three bedroom house, with at least two of my uncles and perhaps my Aunt Ravona and her young daughter Veronica.

This would help explain to me the hard feeling my grandparents harbored for my father for many years after. It might also explain the near hatred they showed him when my mother, having suffered for quite a while finally passed away. She did not survive the war. Instead, she was a victim of another war that was raging out of control in many communities across the country and the world. It is strange how family tales can spin out of control. I recall being told by an older brother that he’d been led to believe that mother’s death was from pneumonia. And this, ostensibly brought about when, after an argument with my father, she’d been ‘locked’ out of the house in frigid weather. In fact, her death was much more horrible than any of us could have imagined. If she’d died as a result of a war it was not one she’d had with her husband. It was a war against the horrors of tuberculosis. It would not be brought under control for a few more terrible years. All my life I’d wondered why my eldest sister seemed to fear tuberculosis more than any other illness. I did not realize that she had grown up in the middle of the pandemic of her times. Nor, that being the eldest she’d witnessed the awful suffering of her mother and aunt. Both were cut down in the prime of their lives. She may also have been privy to the true nature of Uncle Carroll’s death from this scourge while serving in the U.S. Army.

These were the times when terminally ill patients were treated at sanitariums and put out to ‘air’ in the vilest weather. It was done to prevent contamination of others and to ‘cure’ them of their disease. The personification of humble beginnings. N’est- ce pas?

I did not come face to face with these revelations until Marvella handed me the birth certificate. From this faded document I was able to put together a clearer picture of those years. According to testimony given by Uncle Leonce Dupree, my grandfather and grandmother came from Cochran Georgia. My grandmother told us that at fifteen years young she was a bride. This is not shocking because back then the life expectancy for most African-Americans was around 40 years- if not lower. In general, people married young. Many times I heard her say that when she was born yellow fever was raging. All around her people were ill and dying. Several of her siblings perished. Great grandmother was told that her daughter would not live beyond the age of five. Well, she certainly fooled them. She was 106 years old when, tired of living she decided to die. All of her children appear to have already been born and grown to at least teen age in Georgia.

What actually prompted them to move to Pittsburgh is lost in time but there are still members of grandmother’s family, the Allens’ living there. Who got there first is a matter of conjecture. Her sister Alice lived there for many years. She also spoke of a second sister Cleo, also living in Pittsburgh. There was at least one additional sister who’d died in Georgia as a very young child. Her name was Ada. Occasionally, Mother Mollie, as Granny was called by everyone except Bev and I spoke of a brother. I had the pleasure of meeting the youngest sister Florene (Bates) who’d married and was then living in Los Angeles. She had come east to the Bronx to visit a brother Mathew. It was coincidental that at that time my sister Beverly was briefly living nearby with her foster sister. Grand Uncle Mathew was a nice looking man of slight build and medium height. His full head of white hair complimented a welcoming smile. Uncle Leonce resembled him greatly. Uncle Lee told me that I look like another Mathew in the family: my Great-grandfather Mathew Allen.

A few years before her death Faye would tell me of a distant cousin who had contacted her by phone. Living in Los Angeles, he told her that he’d soon be coming east to visit relatives in Pittsburgh. He would also visit her in Chester. They’d talked several times and she was so much looking forward to his visit. She wanted me to come to Chester to meet him because unknowingly, the three of us had something in common besides our ancestry.

But he died suddenly. Faye was so upset when she found this out. She’d told me a little about him but not very much. She did say that he was the co-author of a book about the trial of O.J. Simpson. If she knew more she didn’t say and not having met or spoken with him I was left in the dark. But when Faye passed that link was broken. When writing this account I searched for and found him under the name she’d given me. It was there hiding in plain sight as they say. I simply had not made the connection. Dennis Schatzman, co-author of- The Simpson Trial in Black and White (Amazon 1996). A journalist for The Los Angeles Sentinel newspaper and on and on. I was floored! Was it possible? I could not confirm or deny the possibility. He was a powerful and respected voice not only in the Pittsburg and the L.A. communities but across the country. But how is it he came to contact Faye? It must have been because of Grandmother Mollie. It might even have been through Great Aunt Florene Bates or her husband. Alas, if Faye told me I must confess it has long since faded from my memory. But all of the pieces fit.

Little is known about my grandfather’s family. He gave credit for his upbringing to a surrogate father. Grandpop Sam, fresh from being discharged from the Army, moved the family north to Pittsburgh, Pa. I suppose it was the promise of work in the steel mills.

It is rather certain that my Grandfather Samuel Dupree had no family ties in Pittsburgh. He was an orphan and my brother Brian recalls being told that Popeye (our name for him) was reared by a rather tough and austere southern white farmer. At least that is the accepted story. His name was Bohannan or Buchanan. I can certainly believe this story as I was told that he once locked Aunt Ravona in an upstairs bedroom to prevent her leaving the house and socializing with a certain young man. Apparently, she’d become pregnant and being a true product of his times he had followed standard practices. I’ve since learned this from reading, The Discovery of the Asylum by David Rothman, a chronicle of the Colonial, the Jacksonian and Post-Civil War periods in the United States. Unmarried mothers-to-be and mentally ill folks were sometimes locked away in their homes. There is a photograph showing my grandfather in his military uniform of the 1st World War. He was buried with the customary American flag draping his coffin when he died in 1969. I believe the photograph and flag were among the possessions of Uncle Leonce who took them with him to Arizona after grandmother died in the summer of 2003. She had lived to see her third century. Both grandparents had lived through the pandemic of influenza of 1917-1918.

Of my father’s background I know next to nothing. He told me a couple of years before his death that his grandfather George Fortune was born in 1848 in a place called Rectortown, Virginia. He also talked of a place called Freetown, Virginia: so-called because following the Civil War a slaveholder gave the land to his manumitted slaves. The land was vast and on it the former slaves found a town. Actually, there is evidence that free colored people lived in this area in large numbers long before the start of the Civil War. Fauquier County held the not so dark secret of being an important stop on the Underground Railroad and a respite for passengers on the long road to freedom. Dad said his grandmother’s name was Gladys Fortune and that she was a very religious woman. The story of Gladys Fortune continues to elude my research.

At some point dad’s father may have moved to Chester, Pa. and married there Montena Hestel Turner. There is also a good possibility that both came from the Rectortown or Freetown, Virginia areas. I have no proof of this. Grandfather John Wesley Fortune, an extremely good looking person with green eyes, visible in the large photograph of him that hung for years above my father’s bed would die around 1918. My eldest sister would bear the name Montena. All her life, she would consider it the consummate badge of indignity. She preferred her middle name Fay. Fay was dressed up with an ‘e’, becoming Faye. Wesley would become the middle name of one of my father’s children by his first union with mother Grace Virginia Dupree. Marvin would die while still a baby. My father had a brother Calvin and a sister Marguerite. I did not know my aunt. I knew Uncle Calvin quite well but I saw him just once after we left Pennsylvania for Maryland. I was a young man in New York City when he died. My father paid for the funeral and buried him without fanfare.

The brothers adored their sister and would sadly mourn her passing somewhere in New York City where she’d come to pursue a career in music. I was not to find this out until after my father’s death. He had told Beverly these details. Beverly also told me Aunt Marguerite had been poisoned in New York. But one never knows about these things and often they are better left for eternity to reveal. However, it might explain why, as a young man dad never took what he considered a very good offer to work in New York City. He opted to remain in the smaller and ‘safer’ town of Chester, Pa. It may also explain why he was nearly apoplectic when he learned I had arrived in New York and was not only living there but was pursuing a career in music.

My father’s mother Montena Hestel passed on sometime in the forties. Very dimly, I remember sitting one evening in a pew of a small church near Third Street in Chester while others went to the front to view her body. Years later I would recall the name of the church as St. Mark’s- 214 Lamokin Street. It was quite close to our home at 513 Flower Street in Lamokin Village.

What is unbelievable about this story is that some seven years after this account was written I received a call from my sister Lorene Fortune Evans. It seemed that her son, Marshall Evans Jr. was working in the vicinity of Washington, D.C. Having moved to Eastern Virginia, Marshall Chip had learned the area rather well and recalled having seen a Rectortown sign not far from his new digs. It turned out that Rectortown was a mere 3 miles away. Freetown, Virginia, although renamed Unionville lies not much farther away. Both are places rich in historical content.

The riddle had been solved thanks to dad’s grandson Marshall. The family seat my father recalled having heard of only fleetingly as a boy turned out to be very real. Lorene went there to visit her son and she sent pictures and reported that a quick drive to that ancestral place produced images of beauty and tranquility. The pictures are storybook shots of rolling hills and pastures, ancient fences of stone and summer grass. She said she was intrigued and mesmerized by the place. Encouraged by these findings my own research discovered some historical facts about the area. Mostly Republican, Fauquier County Virginia is named for a Lt. Governor whom legend states won the land in a Poker game (I love it). It was also the scene of the horrors and glory of at least ten Civil War battles. There is documented evidence of heavy Black American participation. The stories Uncle Calvin told of his father or grandfather with a trunk full of weapons (all legal in those long ago times) were probably true. Incredibly, there is a Fortune mountain in Fauquier County Virginia. The subject begs further research, Dad, I’m sure must be smiling.

Undoubtedly, John Fortune and his first wife Grace met in Chester, Pennsylvania.

Like most cities of the industrial north of the times Chester was struggling to remain economically viable. Actually, right after WWII it was kind of like the theory of the glass half full or empty. Or, maybe by this time it was in descent. Still, for many African-American families arriving in the north from small farms in the south, even in my early teens, Chester remained a kind of mecca for anyone willing to renounce their southern ties in favor of a life in the north.

According to my sisters Beverly and Faye, Chester wanted badly to rival its big sister Philadelphia. Its residents liked to call Chester little New York. I think this was because they felt that justifiably or not, Chester was an open town and anything and everything that went on in New York repeated itself in Chester. Chester had another thing for which it was proud. At one time its Ranges Temple –Kerlin Street- was one of the stops on the Black Gospel Music Circuit. All the great gospel singers and groups sang there at one time or another. This too, I learned from sis Beverly who spoke of the celebs she met as a young girl and radio broadcast soloist for the Ranges Temple Choir. I didn’t realize how important this COGIC church was to African-American history until I read the great biography of the Life and Times of Sam Cooke- You Send Me – 1996 Wolff, White & Tenenbaum. One thing sticks out in my mind about Chester: even then its Black families didn’t take any wooden nickels (shit) from anyone. Chester had a history and a heritage. During the awful period of slavery the under-ground railroad also ran through Chester as one of its main stopping points and Black folks were not only aware of it, they celebrated that plain truth.

THE CIRCUS -The good times are often remembered best by those who never had them.

-M.P. Fortune

The circus is coming to town! The circus is coming to town! And it would be attended by the entire Fortune family. Save two: Brian and Maurice. And it was no wonder as both were little more than babies, too small to lug and too tiny to know what was going on under the big tent. It was not a big deal. A circus is not for tots. Yet, the memory of not being allowed to go is among my firsts. I don’t know when it occurred but in my mind these many years later. I believe mother Grace was still alive or in hospital. What I do recall is being placed into the crib that I shared with my brother in the corner room that would become that of Uncle Calvin. As usual I was screaming my lungs out and my sister Faye was trying to comfort me. Finally, she gave up and left the house with the rest of my older siblings to attend the big event for all the kids in the neighborhood. Whatever comforting was left to my ‘big’ brother Brian.

He would continue in this role for several years to come. All his life he would believe that as far as I was concerned he had the final word. Perhaps he did - at least I let him believe that. When everyone returned to the house on Flower Street I was not asleep and I was obliged to listen to the stories of the good times and the wondrous events that had taken place at the Circus. Those times would remain in my memory for years to come. I would replay them until, like a worn and exhausted vinyl recording, they too have faded and have been erased. The lesson was prophetic: I’d be a near nova! I would spend a life time being left behind- almost getting there, burning brightly for a few short moments but not quite reaching stardom. And the Circus? Well, the Circus would go on and on and there would always be another coming to another town sometime next spring. I would finally get to see the Ringling Brothers version some forty years later but it would never be the same as the one I had already attended. Albeit in my mind!

DEATH COMES

GOD GAVE US MEMORY SO THAT WE MIGHT HAVE ROSES IN DECEMBER. (J.M. Barrie)

I could not see! I could not see despite my best efforts and those of my slightly taller brother Brian’s efforts to lift me high enough off the floor. So far it had been a curious kind of day.

We had been dressed in our best clothes. The girls in white dresses and the boys in white shirts and ties that were uncomfortably tight and warm. Too warm for a sunny day in late August or early September. Entering the Church, I had been curious and amused by two women or men who sat in the back of the congregation wearing what appeared to my eyes as sombreros. At three years